


Chickenscratch

by jenphalian



Series: Old MacClucky's Farm [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Chickens, Clucky - Freeform, M/M, Old MacClucky Had A Farm, life-changing manicures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:09:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenphalian/pseuds/jenphalian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So I did my nails with an espionage cosmetics wrap, the purple/teal glittery pattern with black domino masks, and I thought it was just a neat/pretty manicure, but when I posted a picture on twitter, @zarhooie exclaimed, "OMG YOU HAVE CLUCKY NAILS OMG @TAMMACNEIL THIS IS NOT A DRILL," and I guess the moral of this summary is: be careful how you do your manicure because you might accidentally a fic all over yourself. THANKS A LOT KAT AND TAM I HAD THINGS TO DO THIS MORNING.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chickenscratch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zarhooie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarhooie/gifts).



"This is ridiculous," Clint told the red-haired assassin bent over his left hand. "I told you I'd go visit this stupid farm, because I trust you and you said it's important, but what can my nails possibly have to do with anything? Did Kate put you up to this?"

"Just relax, bird-brain. I'm taking you up to the farm because I've got a guy stashed up there, and--"

"Stockpiling D for a rainy day, Nat? Ow!"

"Never mock the woman who's trimming your cuticles. Give me your other hand, that one's gonna bleed a while."

"Fiiiiine, you don't have to tell me who he is. I mean, why would you? I'm just your best friend, saved your life like a million times, but you don't have to trust me. I get it." Clint's voice gets tighter and tighter as Natasha bends his fingers backwards, not breaking them, not damaging his precious hands, but enough to hurt him until he shuts up. She glares at him and pulls out a sparkly little bottle.

"Anyway, like I was trying to say, the guy I've got stashed up there is a little skittish. You want him to be able to see your hands, all the time, got it? That's why I sewed shut the pockets on all the pants I packed for you."

Clint considered objecting to this, but if Natasha wanted to steal his clothes, alter them, pack them for him, and strong-arm him into a manicure, who was he to argue? Besides, she would have had them cleaned. Clean pants are pretty cool. 

He looked down at the purple glitter varnish she was applying to his nails. What the hell was going on up at that farm?

*********************

Natasha drove, obviously, she always drives, but the two-lane Vermont state highway was twistier than her brain and alternated between sheer drop-offs and whitewater rivers. Clint thought he was doing fine, thanks, perfectly calm, until there were flashing lights behind them and he jumped and she laughed at him. A few minutes later they were on the way again.

"Nat, did you meow at that trooper?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because otherwise he would have arrested me. Honestly, Clint, are you new? It's like you've never used Stark Industries' money to pay state troopers to protect a secluded turn-off in the mountains before."

"Oh, of course. Sure. Hey, are there any more granola bars?"

The road became narrower, then less paved, then curved around a hillside to reveal a perfect little valley with a quaint farm cupped at the bottom. "I think I put this puzzle together once. New England Farm Scene #284, right?"

"In hospitals," Natasha explained as she parked on the grass by the barn, "convalescents are often given jigsaw puzzles as a relaxation technique. It helps them pass the time while they recover from whatever trauma they've experienced. Think of this farm as exactly that."

"I haven't experienced any--"

"You're not the patient."

"I mean, not recently, anyway."

"I just said you're not the patient. Remember about your hands." Clint looked down at his sparkly purple nails. They were visible.

*********************

Clint had been up at the farm for a week and was long since over the surprise that Nat had found the Winter Soldier and stashed him on a secret farm in Vermont. Electricity on the farm was a sometimes thing, but they always had propane, so there was hot water for baths, which was nice. There was plenty of food, too, and an endless stream of chores to do. Natasha stayed a couple days, then left them with supplies and farm-work and drove off in the middle of the night. Typical. Clint's pants weren't clean anymore, but he was resisting doing laundry by hand.

Bucky Barnes still hadn't spoken to him. Not a single word.

Clint was sitting in the kitchen, applying fresh nail polish. Every morning, he cooked eggs and bacon, boiled coffee, then ate while chattering mindlessly at the silent-but-deadly Winter Freakin' Soldier across the table from him, then washed up the dishes alone. Then he would sit down and paint over any chips in his manicure. Purple glitter, while it wouldn't have been his first choice, did look pretty cool with the black jeans and t-shirts Nat had packed for him. Farmwork during the day was pretty rough on them, though, and he hated to have it look shitty. So he touched up his nails.

*********************

It had been almost two weeks now. Bucky Barnes had taken a hoe and gone off into their one small field of soybeans, past the quarter-acre kitchen garden. Clint didn't have anything particular to do until he went inside to start cooking dinner, so he leaned against the chicken pen. They had poufy black-and-white feathers and it was strangely relaxing to watch them scratch around the pen. Clint noted that their feeder would probably need cleaning soon.

The wooden handle of the hoe clunked against the fence and then Bucky's arm did the same. Well, the arm was more of a click than a clunk. Clint looked at his hands to make sure they were visible, but didn't look to the side. Maybe if he didn't look, maybe if he pretended not to notice, maybe Bucky would say something. It was absurd to want him to talk so badly, but the man was a legend. He'd known Steve back when--well, a long time ago. Clint should be over it, shouldn't want to know what Steve had been like as a kid. Steve obviously had better things to do than sleep with a stupid bow-and-arrow-monkey anymore, but seriously, what did Sam Wilson have that he didn't? Oh, right, wings. And great abs. And important work with veterans or whatever, he had that going for him. 

"When you weed the plants, if you find grubs like this, the chickens like them." Bucky's metal hand was full of white grubs and he was throwing them one at a time to the chickens. The chickens were very excited about this.

"Did you just talk? To me?" Clint looked around like someone else might be around.

"You're a little weird but I guess you're okay. I was mad that Natasha likes you better than me."

"Oh. We're not, uh, I mean, me an Nat aren't--"

"I know you are not lovers."

"Okay." This was a weird conversation. It probably wasn't possible to have a normal conversation with the Winter Soldier. "How long have you been up here?"

"She brought me to the nut farm in the spring. Still snow on the ground."

"The nut farm?"

"You don't leave a man on a hobby farm in the mountains to get over being sane." He tossed the last grub to the chickens. One of the littler ones caught it in the air and snap-gobbled it immediately while the others scrabbled in the dirt looking for it.

Clint nodded and looked down at his hands, waving them just a little to catch the sun on the sparkly nails.

"Do you always take such care with your fingernails, Clint Barton?"

"I, uh... I mean, no, not usually. But Nat insisted."

"What did she say? That the Winter Soldier might flip out and kill you if he can't see your hands all the time? Is the nail polish to increase their visibility?"

"Um... not... she didn't put it exactly like that, no."

"I am not *that* tightly wound. I don't think so, anyway. I think our friend was fucking with you. She probably bet someone she could get you to wear glitter nail polish."

"She sewed my pockets shut!"

Bucky laughed. Clint gave up and laughed with him.

*********************

The farm was a lot more pleasant after that. They did chores together. Bucky told Clint about the chickens, which Natasha brought in a cardboard box with holes in it, tiny day-old chicks piled all over each other. They grew fast and he was protective of them. A fisher started sniffing around the coop, so he killed it. Then a fox, same thing. Finally a wildcat showed up and he was tired of killing animals, something about the majesty of nature or whatever, so he told Natasha he wanted to build a better fence around the whole place and a couple days later she flew a helicopter in to drop pallets of fence posts and wire, no shit. The new fence didn't keep all the wildlife out, but it kept him busy for weeks, and it turned out the cybernetic arm was great for digging post-holes. He reinforced the doors on the chicken coop and nothing had bothered the chickens since.

"Have you named the chickens?"

"I thought about naming them after all the men and women I have killed as the winter soldier, very symbolic, you know, because now I protect them, but then I couldn't remember the people's names." Clint didn't know what to say, but Bucky laughed, so he did too.

Clint kept painting his nails. He decided he didn't care if Natasha had been screwing with him. They looked nice. He wasn't used to doing nice things for himself. One day, Bucky helped with the breakfast dishes and then sat at the table with him. He took the bottle of polish from Clint and, without saying a word, took over nail polish duty. He never got any on the edges, either, and one time when Natasha stopped by she left a little box with emery boards and clippers and cotton balls and a dozen little jars of interesting colors. They were all glittery, and Clint discovered that they worked pretty good on the star on Bucky's arm, too, so they started painting it yellow, or sometimes purple or blue, but it wasn't ever a red star anymore.

*********************

"I think you're probably both ready to get your asses back down to New York." Her voice preceded her through the kitchen door as she interrupted their breakfast.

"Aww, Nat." Clint got up and started a pot of water for more coffee. 

"But Natasha, I still feel very unstable." Bucky stared off into the distance. "If you only knew the things I have done. I could snap at any moment."

"I do know the things you've done, Barnes. You've had all summer to not snap. And don't think I haven't noticed that you two have been sleeping together. That's a very good sign! I knew this would work out."

"Vermont is cold at night," Clint said, dropping a plate of pancakes down in front of her. "We had to keep each other warm." This was true, but it was also true that the sex had been amazing. The way Bucky moved with him, against him, had been delightful. He hardly ever thought about Steve anymore, and when he did, it didn't hurt quite as much.

She rolled her eyes. "That's very adorable. Now go pack your underwear. There's an evil mastermind trying to bioengineer flying fire-breathing krakens to attack the city and I need some help blowing up his lab."

Bucky threw a piece of bacon at her. "No way, who would feed my chickens if I just up and left?" 

Nat caught the bacon neatly and ate it. "A farmer. I've already taken care of it."

Clint looked at Bucky. If Natasha needed him for a job, he'd go, and he didn't want to leave his new lover alone here. Sometimes Bucky still cried when he woke up from nightmares, or after sex, or sitting in front of the fireplace in the evening. So they'd just have to go fight crime together. "Come on, then, Bucky. Let's see how much ass we can kick as a team."


End file.
